Fateless isn't Nameless
by demonfox910
Summary: He didn't want one. Unfortunately, he'll discover that even killers who are supposed to be dead need them once in a while. Because two gnomes with lame facial hair do not have the privilege of naming my character, this is my story of how a man with no past and an unlimited future got his name. Rated for language and some sexual content. Read and review.


***waves white flag* *waves olive branch* *flashes peace sign* *throws money* Please, don't shoot! I know I haven't updated anything in forever, and I know I'm an asshole. I'm sorry! I've had crazy writers block and college is tough and I have tons of distractions and this hit me randomly and I'm really sorry I'll update the others sometime soon hopefully!**

**Sigh. Just read and enjoy. This is my first attempt at anything steamy, as well as the present tense. Criticism adored! Flames scoffed at!**

The bracers, greaves, and cotton mage robes he wears are worn and fit too tightly to be comfortable. He feels like one big bruise. A hastily-bandaged, shallow, but still painful, cut runs vertically from his shoulder to his elbow, splitting pale-green Dokkalfar skin. His robes have been burnt away at his side, and the skin is red and weeping clear fluid. His muscular chest rises and falls painfully. Fae blood encrusts the left side of his face, partially obscuring a dragon claw-shaped tattoo in crimson ink that curls around his left eye. Tired beyond any further work, he steps inside Gorhart's inn and walks over to the pretty, young bartender, trying to brush some of the dried blood off his face as he walks. He doesn't want to alarm anyone.

"Hey, Deda," he says in a deep voice, raspy with fatigue.

Taking note of his exhausted, haggard look, the girl favors him with a sympathetic smile. "What can I get you?" she asks, dark-brown ponytail bouncing as she moves over to him.

His eyes roll. "What do ya think? Strong. Cold. Also, I need a room for the night."

She simply shakes her head and giggles at his rudeness, then quickly fills a tankard to the brim and hands it to him, still smiling. "Rest easy. You don't have to spend all your time fighting, you know?"

He chuckles at that, then hands her a stack of coins. She shakes her head and pushes them back. "You've done so much for us here. I can't make you pay."

He quirks an eyebrow. "You sure? I didn't know you owned the place."

"If the owner complains I'll cover your tab myself," she says firmly.

Too tired to argue the point, he pockets his coin, shrugs, and turns around, giving a lazy two-fingered salute over his shoulder. "Thanks."

He glances around and sees Herc at one of the tables, holding a steaming mug of what looks like cider, (though why he would be drinking a hot beverage in this kind of weather is beyond the elf) and shambles over to join the sheriff, collapsing down into the chair across from him. "Taking a break, scaredy-cat?" he jokes.

The Almain nods. "Yes. Things have really calmed down here in the last week." He raises an eyebrow. "Not that I'm complaining, but did you kill the entire Red Legion? Because I'm starting to believe that's the only rational explanation for my workload having been cut in half."

The elf shakes his head, then takes a loooong swig from his tankard. He lets out a sigh as his body seems to immediately recover from fatigue and pain. Icy flavor floods him, and the taste of blood on his tongue is replaced with the welcome bristly burn of alcohol. "I almost wish I had. Nah, they've mostly turned tail and bolted now that Medgar and Osgar are dead."

Herc just nods and takes a drink of his own. "So what was it this time? If the Red Legion didn't cut you up, burn you, and otherwise leave you looking like shit," he grins for the first time, "something sure did." He jabs a finger at the pair of fire-enchanted steel daggers sheathed at the elf's waist, then the chakrams perpetually emitting a faint sheen of frost strapped to his back. "You're too damn good with those for some normal fool to have hurt you."

The mage/rogue drains his tankard, wipes the foam from his mouth with a hand, then licks the residue from his fingers. "Ran into a Varani limping along on the road, only he wasn't a Varani but a wolf who was cursed into being a human. Kept calling me 'Two-legs.' He needed some kinda magic well water to change him back, so I went looking for it. Found it and got attacked by some Sprite Champions. Then the well fucking disappeared, and when I found it again, a pack of brownies nearly bit my head off. Then there's all the fucking Boggarts between here and Shieldring Keep."

He drums his fingers on the table, wincing with each tap. "Funny, I've been calling myself 'Two-legs' all day."

Herc blinks a couple times, then grabs both his mug and the elf's tankard, coming back with both refilled a moment later. "Well, chap, it seems that at the moment, your life sucks," he says. The elf simply grunts. Herc sips his cider, contemplating. "You still don't have a name, do you?"

The Dokkalfar glares at him before deciding that his muddy, blood-stained boots are the most interesting articles of clothing he has ever beheld. Grinding his teeth a bit, he takes a drink and says, "What of it?"

The sheriff lets out an exasperated sigh, cocks his head, and drains the rest of his cider. He makes a face and winces. "Burnt tongue," he mutters, before addressing the man across from him. "'What of it?' You have amnesia! Whatever you were before, it's done. You need to give this life of yours a title. Also, it's annoying not even knowing what to call my friends," he says seriously, then adds with mirth, "or what to tell your multitudes of raving admirers when they ask who saved them from wild Fae, death by the House of Ballads, sickness, heartbreak, tricksters, religious persecution, and murdering bandits."

The elf sighs and scratches the thick stubble on his cheeks. "I don't care. I know what I'm good at—killing. I don't need to know anything else. Names are nice, sure, but if I don't see the point. I'm not even supposed to be alive. Why would a dead man need a name?" He wasn't being morose, just stating the facts.

Herc drops his head into his free hand, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's…," he sighs again, "it just isn't right for a person not to have a name! You need a name," he insists, pointing at the elf's chest. "So, before you go to bed, we're going to give you one."

The elf starts playing with the handle of one of his daggers. "Why do you keep bringing this up, Herc?"

The tall human claps his hands. "That's why! See, my name's Herc—you just called me Herc." He points at the elf, who noted that a lot of pointing had been going on that night. "It isn't just inconvenient, though; it's Mitharu-damned _degrading_. Everyone has a name. It's like you're…less without one."

The elf buries his face in his hands. "Why now?"

"Because I can," Herc retorted. "And because I know you'll try to get out of this. I can't normally catch you, but now you're too tired to run away."

The elf takes a resigned drink from his tankard, emptying it. Seeing that his friend has given up on protest, Herc smiles. "All right, how do we do this…?" he mused. "I'll just rattle off names I know and you tell me if you like any of them." The elf just groans.

"Hmm, Micah?" A shake of the head.

"Jacob?" Another shake of the head.

"Eagan?"

Memories of the fool who'd nearly gotten him killed in Waterhall Down arose. "Hell, no." Herc grins before continuing.

"Those are all human names…Caerwyn? That's a pretty common Dokkalfar name."

A pause, then, "No."

"Gerrick? He was a famous Dokkalfar historian."

"No."

Several names later, Herc folds his arms over his chainmail-encased chest, obviously a bit frustrated. Then, his face brightens. "I've got it," he says proudly. He leans forward, armor creaking, and says, "It's perfect.

"Before I moved with my parents to the Faelands, my father told me a story about a hero from our hometown who lived long ago. His name was Kessair. He was an alchemist, a healer of untold skill and compassion. One day, however, the town was almost completely destroyed by a pack of bandits, and many of his friends died. His family was slaughtered before his eyes. Seeingwhat had become of the only home he'd ever known, he went from potion-brewer to poison-maker, from alchemist to warrior and assassin. He hunted down the men who'd torn his life apart and killed them. Then, when he was done, he returned to what was left of his town and helped everyone move to a walled city where they would be safe. Once there, he went back to healing. However, in the Almain homeland, brigands still fear the name Kessair the Killer, and everyone else remembers fondly Kessair the Savior, he who was capable of both unstoppable wrath and incredible kindness."

Story concluded, Herc leans back in his chair, grinning like an idiot. "Well, what do you think?"

The elf sits, thinking. He feels the name around in his mouth, saying it a couple of times. "Kess…air. Kessair." He thinks about the story, then sighs, now very, very tired. "Lemme think on it."

He rises with a grunt of effort. "You're bringin' the tankard back," he slurs. Herc just laughs.

"Don't you forget, you hear me? Remember what I said!" The elf just gives the same two-fingered salute he gave Deda, then walks upstairs to his room before pulling his leathers and robes off, unbuckling his weapons, and collapsing face-first on the divinely soft mattress.

He doesn't wake until late the next day. His tongue feels as if it is coated in coal dust and his muscles ache terribly. He makes an attempt at washing his face with some rainwater from the windowsill, then tiredly makes his way down the hall to Catrin, Gorhart's only healer.

After paying Catrin for making him feel less like a troll's stepping stone, he goes to the river nearby and bathes as best he could, then devotes some time to repairing his armor, all the while nagged by Herc's words the previous night. In the evening, after a large meal, he is sitting in the bar again, sipping a cold ale. His silver-white hair is unbound from its usual thick braid and still damp, hanging to his shoulder blades, bangs brushed behind his sharply-pointed ears. His armor has been left in his room, and he is wearing just a thin, white shirt and a plain pair of tan trousers borrowed from the inn's small stock of spare clothes. His feet are bare. An arrow or fireball to the chest would absolutely kill him right now and he doesn't care because it feels _great _to rest.

He leisurely walks over to the bar and gets his tankard refilled. Then, he tries once again to be fair and humble, with little success. "I'll keep the same room," he argues, "but I can't keep mooching like this. It feels wrong."

Deda pushes his gold away again. "I'm not letting you pay. I told you."

His good mood is shifting to frustration now. He rolls his eyes. "It's not right! Argh, just shut up and take my money!"

Unaffected by his outburst, Deda puts a hand on his forearm and he stiffens. He likes his space and does not like being touched under most circumstances. Admittedly, though, this isn't most circumstances, and he doesn't know what to feel.

The bar-girl is smiling somewhat shyly now. "Okay, let's compromise," she says. "You don't give me any money, and you don't have to keep the room for tonight."

He cocks his head, uncertain as to her reasoning. "But where would I stay?" he asks. Something is slid across the table. It's a carefully folded slip of worn parchment. He unfolds it and smiles despite himself at the unexpectedly elegant writing.

_**You don't have to rent a room for the night. Stay in my room, instead. You get a bed, and I'll let you pay me, just not with gold. Come by after last call.**_

_**Deda**_

_**PS – You should wear your hair free more often. It's really quite dashing.**_

His jaw drops and he stares at her, then stares some more. She is very pretty, and he likes talking with her, but he hadn't expected her to take a shine to him like this. His brain decides not to function properly. "Uh…," he begins intelligently, before being lightly shoved away by the brightly blushing, giggling human girl.

_Wow, _he thinks. _Can't think of too many humans who'd want a night with a broody, fight-scarred elf._ _Big, tough, _powerful_ slayer of bandits shocked into silence by a proposition from a girl._ He groans in exasperation before if he has (for lack of a better word) amnesia he knows that the private company of a pretty woman is a _very_ good thing, and he finds himself happily awaiting last call.

A couple of hours after that, he walks up to his room to get his armor, weapons, and other items. He'd need to move them, at least. None of them are there and he stands there quizzically for a second before turning to bolt from the room and ask Deda where his things went, momentarily pushing their…arrangement back in his thoughts.

He knocks on her door twice, resisting the urge to his foot impatiently After a moment the door opens, and Deda stands in the doorway, dressed in nothing but a thin, white nightgown. His jaw wants to drop again, but he recovers and grasps her shoulders with bruising strength. She winces and says, "You don't need to be so-"

"Do you know what happened to my things?" he whispers harshly, before instantly regretting his tone and looking away.

Her mouth opens in an "oh!" "Um, I've got them," she says. "You looked so tired yesterday, so I figured I could save you the trouble of looking after your stuff tonight."

He once again is rendered speechless by the bar-girl. Eventually, he stammers out a "thanks," and she smiles before taking his arm and pulling him inside her room, shutting the door.

She tugs him onto her bed, and he notices his equipment and other possessions neatly stacked at the foot of it. "Sorry I grabbed you so hard," he says, one hand still on her shoulder, but with a much gentler grip.

She shakes her head and laughs lightly. "It's okay. I'm glad you have your strength back."

He chuckles deep in his throat and instinctively moves his fingers to her waist, sliding them underneath the nightie and along her pale skin. "You need to extract your 'payment,' right?"

Deda smiles mischievously. "I do. But really," she says, tracing a scar from his brow to his jawline, "what can I call you?" He blinks for a second, then decides to ignore the question, intent on what he's doing, and moves his other hand up her belly and lightly palms one of her breasts. She moans and bites at his lower lip, tugging at his shirt. He breaks away and pulls the garment off, before diving back into her, tugging the nightie over her shoulders before eagerly massaging and squeezing both her breasts, bringing his mouth to suck at her neck.

Both of them realize that before his death he must have been _damn_ good at this, and losing his memory doesn't seem to have dulled his skill at all.

Deda tangles one hand in his hair, and he groans when she brushes the other across his groin. "Come ooon," she whines as he nips at her skin. "It'll be awkward if I don't…ah…know what to scream."

His libido grows even further at that and he growls, regretfully pulling his lips away from her throbbing pulse point. His body is on fire and whatever he remembers, it certainly seems like it has been a while and he does _not _want to stop.

A name. _Fuck._

_That's what you're doing, not a name._

_Shut up, _he says to his inner smartass. Then, he remembers what Herc was talking about the day before, and the final name he had proposed. He works the word around his mouth again, chewing on it. Eh, what the hell. It wasn't his style to worry to much about minute details anyway.

Deda taps his cheek. "Hey, uh…you there?"

He smirks then and his lips collide with hers, effectively answering her question. "No more 'you's," he orders, eyes hazy and half-closed with lust. "My name is Kessair."

**AN:**

**Kingdom's of Amalur is a really fun game, if you haven't played it you should. **

**Review? Please? Pretty please?**


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